Grandad

Tough on the outside...

This morning Mr's phone will insist on bleeping. It bears news.

I can't sleep on that news, and we have no bread. The bread maker is dragged out from under plastic baskets of brewing paraphernalia. The bread maker book opens to the page for brioche.

Sugar.

There's the left over chicken to simmer into stock for noodles.

Spice.

While the wait hovers, because that how waiting is, not quite landed: washing is hung on the line, dogs shuffle nosy in the morning grass, a warm breeze blows over open blooms. Coffee brews: strong, strong coffee. Buttery baked aromas drift from the open kitchen window. Most of the washing up is done and drips on the draining rack, upside down and clean. A notebook open to a blank page lies on a table of life in motion, on a tide of lists and receipts and a card bought for this occasion. There is a stamp for it in the back of a floral print purse.

All things nice.

The phone rings. 'A baby girl,' Mr repeats: 'a granddaughter. Ten past twelve?'

I look at the clock: it's not past midday.

'Oh! Twelve past ten. You sound tired,' he says to his son. He smiles.

Ah, baby girl, how you will love the sparkle of those kind blue eyes!